Faceless Musician
by AmethystWolfGirl
Summary: AU! Johnlock fluff later. John and Sherlock have never met, and have never seen each other but their lives are connected by something as simple as a the thin wall diving their two separate flats. (I abandoned this fic a while ago, but I'm going to start it up again! Reviews appreciated a lot.)
1. Chapter 1

He's at it again. The next-door neighbour playing his violin at ungodly hours of the morning and night. He's not even good at it, or at least he certainly doesn't sound it. It's scratchy and squeaky and it goes right through me. But I'm not having any more of it.

Pushing myself up from my chair, I wander into my bedroom where our flats are separated by the wall. Raising my voice above the dreadful wailing coming from the other side, I call out to the player.

"Would you stop playing that God-forsaken violin? It's 2:30am! Play something properly or shut up and give my ears a rest!"

The musician, if you could call him that, plays another two notes then stops, as though only just registering that I had spoken to him. Silence follows and I let out a quiet sigh. At last. Now that he has finally quietened I can make myself a hot cuppa and go to bed. I barely make it out of the room before the discordant scratching of a bow upon strings reverberated through my flat again. I clench my teeth. No wonder the rent was so cheap.

With an almighty breath to control my temper, I storm back into my room and bang my fist against the wall.

"Stop playing your bloody violin!" I yell again.

Once more there is no sound from the opposite flat but my fists stay curled at my side and my teeth stay clenched because I'm no fool; he's almost certainly listening out for my footsteps and the moment I go to leave, I know he will continue. I stay resolutely where I am.

Then, taking me by surprise, the player draws out a long, soft note and goes into one of the most beautiful solo renditions of Bach's Chaconne I've ever heard and I find myself swaying slightly, because it's one of the most amazing classical pieces to be heard live, particularly by someone who is so obviously talented and practiced. Immediately, I take back all previous thoughts about the terrible musician on the other side of my wall, because there is nothing terrible about his playing right now and despite the shortened length, I'm captivated to the last note, imagining whoever the man is, playing, running his bow over the strings and pressing his fingers down with the perfect strength, holding the polished instrument to his chin and finding it so comfortable and natural that his fingers just itch to continue. I realise that he is shortening it, probably on purpose, afraid to waste my time - he's playing for me, showing off, but it's gorgeous and he holds me all the way, my faceless musician.

It finishes and I am breathless, finding no words to congratulate his playing but I worry that he'll be insulted by my lack of response so I finally find one word to describe it because I am so blown away it is as though all the words in the English language were toppling out of my mind and floating away like a helium balloon.

"Fantastic," I whisper.

There's a shuffling noise and I realise that's him, my neighbour, setting down the violin. It's quiet again for a moment and then finally he responds.

"You think so?"

His voice, my goodness. This is the first time I've heard it and it's not at all what I had expected, though to be fair, I hadn't exactly put much thought into it. It is deep and sonorous, with a slight rumbling quality and totally unique. Really, it seems a little weird to be thinking about his voice so much, but then again this is my first contact with him properly other than hearing him play the violin so I don't think too much into it.

"Of course." I reply.

How could he not know? Maybe he's fishing for compliments. All I know is that he could have played for much longer and I wish he had.

"That's an interesting opinion."

My God, he sounds so bored with the conversation. I wish I could see him, to judge what he's actually feeling but the wall separating us is a bit of an issue for that. I hope he isn't bored.

"Interesting? What do you mean?"

"I never receive compliments about my music."

"Maybe that's because you spend so much time making that terrible scratching on your violin."

"…"

"Are you still there?" I ask hesitantly. Has he left me alone talking to a wall like a fool?

"I am here."

"Why didn't you reply?"

"I didn't think there was any need to."

"Why do you make a terrible racket at this time anyway? Do you ever sleep?"

"Sleeping slows me down. I play because I'm bored."

"Well that's stupid. Everybody needs sleep."

"I don't. Now if you're quite finished, may I return to my work?"

"What are you working on?"

"That is none of your business."

"Oh… Sorry. Will you stop playing the violin at this hour, then?"

"Fine."

"Thanks. Goodnight then."

"Perhaps."

I don't reply in case he's going to say anything else but there's more silence and I figure that's it. As I get ready for bed, my mind turns over the man on the other side of the wall, who works, and gets bored and plays the violin, and has a deep voice and doesn't get compliments and as I settle down in bed I wonder whether or not the man on the other side of the wall is getting ready for bed too, or whether he is working on whatever it is he does because sleeping slows him down. Just as I drift off, I realise I don't even know his name yet.


	2. Chapter 2

It's a few weeks before I hear from the man next door. I don't spend much time dwelling on our short conversation, though the thought of him slips in and out occasionally. But nothing really changes in my life. I continue as normal, going to my job which is dull but pays the bills, drinking more tea than is strictly necessary and watching crap telly. It's comfortable enough, but very repetitive.

The man on the other side of the wall is keeping his promise not to play the violin a lot better than I thought he would have, given the way he had spoken to me before. Apparently, I was wrong. I don't hear anything from his side of the wall for about a fortnight.

I sit on my bed with my eyes closed. It's a Friday night and I sip my tea and rest the nape of my neck against the top of my bed's headboard, which is pushed up against the wall. I'm relaxed and content, which despite my reasonably casual lifestyle, doesn't occur very often.

Of course, it changes fast.

Suddenly, there's a loud _bang_ from the other side of the wall. I jump, jerking out of my tranquil afternoon state and spilling hot tea all over myself. I yelp and there's clattering coming from behind me. The tea cools quickly but it still scalded me.

"What the bloody hell was that?" I yell as the throbbing in my hand from where the tea caught it subsides.

"Nothing to concern yourself over." his smooth voice replies.

"Well I've spilled tea all over myself now so it kind-of is. What happened? Are you alright?"

"Small explosion. Everything is fine. Go back to your afternoon."

"An explosion?"

"I do hate repeating myself. Yes, an explosion."

"Why was there an explosion?"

"My phone distracted me. Looked away from an experiment for a few seconds too long."

"You're conducting experiments in there? What kind of experiments?" I don't know whether to be concerned or curious. I settle on a bit of both.

"They're for my work. It wouldn't interest you."

"You can't know that. You don't even know what I look like."

"I have a reasonable idea of that."

"You what?" I swallow. He knows what I look like? I can't think how that's possible, unless he's been spying on me. I haven't passed any of my new neighbours yet. My shifts don't really go with most others', and I haven't made any attempt to socialise with them. There's a sigh on the other side of the wall.

"Judging from the height that your voice is coming from, I estimate you're about 5'6. I can tell by the sound your bed makes when you sit on it you have a fairly stocky build. Your accent suggests that you've been brought up in London, so assuming that your parents are Caucasian, it's likely that you are fairly pale however you've been abroad for a while, you have a limp, so for the army. Injured, in Afghanistan or Iraq, then, sent home. Benefits aren't amazing, so you ended up here. Not really that hard to determine."

I'm shocked. I move slightly back from the wall. The man there can tell all of that from my voice and the noise I make when I sit on my bed?

"That's… That's amazing." I say, and I believe it 100%.

There's that pause again, as there is whenever I pass a compliment through. It's like it takes him a while to comprehend it, to understand that I'm being sincere. I wonder about what his life must be like to be so skilled yet so under-appreciated.

"It's an easy deduction. Nothing more. Hardly my fault that most idiots can't use their brains to do the same." he finally replies.

"Are you implying that I'm an idiot?" I ask, offended.

"No. I'm saying it outright. Don't get upset, everybody else is an idiot too."

I let out an angry huff of indignation. I'm aware that I'm not the brightest spark out there, but I'm not an idiot and I certainly don't like people to think that I am, especially not by people who haven't actually met me yet.

"I don't think that's really a fair thing to say about me. You don't know me. I might be smarter than you."

It's quiet for a bit and I realise he's laughing. Actually laughing. Well, it's more of a chuckle and it's barely audible, but it's there and it's the first time he's actually sounded as though he doesn't want to jump off a cliff from boredom so I find myself being less angry than I want to be at the fact that he is laughing at the thought of me being smarter than him, and far more intrigued than I admit to being about the way it floats through, soft and repressed but there, just out of reach.

"Well I could be."

The man, whoever he is, ceases chuckling and I ignore the fact that I have the power to make him chuckle in the first place.

"You're really not." he replies, amused.

"How could you possibly tell?"

"I don't have to know how smart you are to know that I am smarter than you."

"Well you're pretty sure of your intellect."

"I am certain of it."

I sigh. This conversation is going nowhere.

"What's your name?" I ask.

"Do you really want to know, or are you just attempting to exchange social pleasantries? I really don't have time for the latter."

"A bit of both?"

There's more silence from his side. I determine that there will often be silences like this when he is thinking. Finally, he replies.

"The less you know about me, the better it will be for you."

"I don't understand."

He doesn't reply.


	3. Chapter 3

I stare distastefully into the empty fridge. Well, empty in the sense of a jar of pickles, half a tub of butter and some dubious-looking leftovers. I straighten up and close the fridge with a sigh. Resigning myself to the fact that I'll have to go out, I tug on my coat then count the change in my pocket. £4.12 - I would need to take my card.

Grabbing my keys and debit card, I leave my flat and lock up behind me. As I walk down the steps I nearly bump into one of my neighbours. She's tanned and has frizzy brown hair and she smiles with straight white teeth. Not really my type, but she seems nice, and I smile back politely. After all, I need to make some friends in the building and a rude next-door neighbour who thinks I shouldn't speak to him (which is basically what he said to me the day before) doesn't exactly count.

"Hi, sorry." I apologise for bumping into her.

"It's alright." she replies. "So, you're the new guy, yeah? I haven't seen you around here before. Moved in upstairs?"

"Yeah, that's me." I nod.

"Well, let me give you a heads up - the last guy that lived there cleared out after a month. Your next-door neighbour? Sherlock Holmes? He's a nightmare. If you wanna keep yourself sane, move out. Lord knows why I haven't already. The whole building can hear him playing the violin and messing around with his crazy experiments."

I try not to frown. This man, Sherlock Holmes, has obviously left a bad impression on most of this building. But I don't want to let him leave a bad impression on me.

"I don't like judging people by what other people think of them." I reply evenly. She just shakes her head absently.

"He thinks it too. He's a freak. A total psychopath. Do yourself a favour and clear off whilst you still have the chance."

I don't know how to reply to that and I think she picks up on it too.

"My name is Sally. Sally Donovan."

"John Watson." I respond, offering her my hand to shake. She accepts, her hand cool in my warm palm. But I have no intention of speaking to her further. I give her a brief smile and release her hand, continuing down the stairs and to the shops, wondering as I walk along the paved streets of London with my crutch, about the man on the other side of the wall, Sherlock Holmes and why everybody dislikes him so much.

* * *

**A/N:** Sorry for the short size of this one! I needed a bit of a filler whilst I got my ideas together because they were scattered about my brain like somebody had just emptied a filing cabinet all over it. Also, for future reference, any and all Author's Notes will be at the bottom so as not to impede your reading!


	4. Chapter 4

I spend a lot of time thinking about Sherlock Holmes on the way back from the shops. My curiosity is peaked and I want to know about him. In our brief conversations he's been elusive, certainly, but I think I can figure out the mystery that is the man on the other side of my wall. It may take some time, but I know I can do it.

I wonder how I will start a conversation with him. I don't think yelling at him, or asking about explosions will suffice this time round. I realise this is stupid. I'll start conversations how I always do. With 'hello', of course.

But I can't go into a conversation without something to talk about. He must have some sort of interest that I share. He plays the violin, and I learned the clarinet at school, but I don't think that's something we share. Not after hearing him play so well.

What else is there? There must be something, surely? I sigh. We don't seem to have much in common at all. But I'll be damned if I was going to let Sherlock remain a puzzle to me. I don't leave my puzzles unsolved.

I let myself into the flat and put my shopping away, then slip into my bedroom and onto the bed, shuffling close to the wall.

"Hello?"

"Hello. What do you want?" His voice, as ever, catches me off guard. I feel as though my ears are being smothered in honey. It takes a lot to not imagine softly-spoken words dripping around me and enveloping me.

"Just a chat. You're not busy, are you?"

"No. But I do not like chatting."

"Well I can see that. Is your name Sherlock?"

"It is. I suppose it was only a matter of time before you found out. Who told you?"

"A woman; one of your neighbours. Sally Donovan."

"Oh."

"Yeah, 'oh'. I get the feeling she doesn't really like you."

"No, she does not. What did she say about me? Anything interesting?"

"Nothing I hadn't already figured out, really."

"I see. What is your name then, seeing as you know mine?"

"John. Dr John Watson."

"Oh, so an army doctor then? I presume they paid for you to get your medical degree."

"That's right." I reply. Whilst I try to think of something to say next, Sherlock beats me to it.

"John, perhaps it is best that we don't share too much information about ourselves."

"Why not?" I ask, frowning, though of course he can't see it.

"I am not somebody you would like to be friends with."

"Says who?"

"Me. And most people would have moved out after a week of hearing my violin."

"Well I didn't. I'm not most people, Sherlock."

"I know."

"Alright then."

An awkward silence ensues.

"Bad weather, huh?" I say just to try and keep the conversation going. He chuckles a bit.

"You are very stereotypical, John. Yes, the weather has been quite bad recently, if you consider rain a bad thing."

"Because I complain about the weather a lot, I'm stereotypical?"

"You drink a lot of tea as well."

"All right, fair point. What do you do then, if you don't drink tea or moan about the weather?"

"I have my work. Nothing else really matters."

"Oh right. What's your job then?"

"Not giving away details, are we?"

"Right, right. Can I guess?"

"I hate guessing games."

"Well you're not the one guessing. Are you some sort of scientist? You said you were doing an experiment."

"No, I am not a scientist."

"Musician, then?"

"That is not my job, no."

"Umm… Alright I don't know."

"I didn't think you would."

"You can be rather rude, you know that?"

"I've been informed so on a number of occasions. Just another reason for people not to talk to me."

"Is that why you don't want to share details? Because you're afraid I'll move away and leave you just like everybody else?"

"My reasons are my own, and none of your concern."

"Alright, so you're not concerned about whether or not I move. I get it."

"I'm glad. At least you show some signs of not being an idiot."

"Charming, as ever."

"Goodbye, John."

"Goodbye Sherlock."

I grin as he moves away from the wall. The ending to our conversation was a bit abrupt, but I'm rather glad. Shaking my head, I decide to go make myself a cup of tea. Sherlock Holmes could be a puzzle for another day.


	5. Chapter 5

There's a lot of crashing and banging and shouts coming from Sherlock's flat. It sounds as though he's throwing things around, and smashing things against the walls. Occasionally I'll hear a huff, or a noise of anger when he does so, but he's mostly silent. I know I ought to be scared of whatever's going on, but I can't help more feel more concerned then anything.

I move to my bedroom and approach the wall to see if I can settle whatever has gotten him so worked up, when something is hurled against the wall with an almighty crash. Having heard much worse in my lifetime, I don't topple backwards, as others might do, but remained sturdily where I am. I shake my head and go to say something along the lines of 'What's going on?', when Sherlock gets there first, initiating the talk first for once.

"GO AWAY!" he yells. Alright, so it's less of a talk.

"What's going on?" I ask calmly, ignoring his command.

"What does it sound like to you?" he snapped back.

"It sounds as though you're destroying half of your flat."

"A correct, if slightly exaggerated inference. Congratulations, John, you must feel so proud." Sherlock's voice is sharp and dripping with sarcasm. I am not deterred.

"What I meant was, _why?_" I corrected myself.

"I'm bored." there was a sound of what I assume to be him shrugging his shoulders, a slight huffing exhale of breath, a small rustle of clothing and what I recognise to be a withheld sigh. I'm all too familiar with the noise, as it's one I find myself making on a regular basis.

"You're bored?"

"I do hate repeating myself, John."

"Why are you bored?" I ask. Maybe if I could distract him, he'd calm down.

"There's nothing to do!" he moaned, verging on a whine. It sounds pitiful, really, though I don't say anything about it, knowing it would do no good for his mood whatsoever.

"You could read a book, watch TV, go for a walk, draw a picture, write a story, go out shopping, play your violin, do one of your 'experiments'." I reel off quickly. Surely something on that list would appeal to him?

"Dull." he replies almost instantly.

"Then I don't know, Sherlock."

"Of course you don't."

I bite back a snide remark at that. I decide not to stoop to his level of arguments.

"Look, I tried to suggest some things for you to do. There's no need for you to be so unreasonable about it."

"Oh, what do you know?" Sherlock snaps back, and the contempt is clear in his voice. "I bet you don't even listen to your therapist, do you? 'How did you know I see a therapist, Sherlock?' You leave your flat every week at the same time on the same day and always arrive in a bad mood, and you're an invalid returned home from the army so of course you'll be asked to speak to one, at least once before they dismiss you, or take you on." Sherlock rattles off and it's as though he knows my life story. He's racing through his words, not even pausing for breath and I'm bowled away but I'm also angry. Irrationally angry at him, because these things are personal to me, things I don't tell people and he _knows_ them, can even explain them, and he hasn't even seen me! It takes me a moment for my anger to pass, but Sherlock's still speaking, hasn't stopped speaking yet.

"-and tell me John - your limp. Is there even a wound?" he asks, and suddenly it feels like there's dead silence.

"Yes." I reply tightly.

"On your leg?"

"…No."

"Ah, I thought that might be the case. PTSD is getting very common these days."

I don't want to talk to Sherlock any more. He may be bored, and frustrated, but I feel invaded and open. Sherlock asks me something, but I ignore it, ignore him, because I'll be damned if I'm going to let him think he can talk to me like that. I'm over-reacting, probably, but I don't care, and I curl up on my bed and close my eyes. I don't think I hate Sherlock Holmes, but I don't think I like him very much either.


	6. Chapter 6

A few weeks after we argued, Sherlock still doesn't apologise. And that's fine. I haven't even seen the man, damn it, and I am not going to let him work me up like that again. I get on with my job, I speak to my therapist and I sit around and do nothing much. Like Sherlock, I am bored.

I try to get a girlfriend, but not much happens in that area. I bring one girl back - Sarah, her name is - and Sherlock is yelling in his flat to somebody called 'Anderson', which doesn't help set the mood. We end up watching a movie together, and ordering in a takeaway. I don't know if she's interested in me romantically, and though I still find her pretty, and sweet, I don't think we'll ever be more than friends. Nothing that would last, anyway. I feel like Sherlock is to blame for that, but I'm not sure why. I blame it on him yelling, I think.

Eventually though, we end up speaking again. It isn't exactly an apology that starts it off; in fact it isn't even Sherlock. His brother, Mycroft, pays me a visit.

Mycroft walks in, in a very regal way. My initial thought is 'posh snob' and whilst this is a rash and rude judgement, I don't want to take it back, because it's mostly true. But he does care about Sherlock. He says things about me, and about Sherlock, and about enemies. Mycroft knows things about me. Things I haven't even told my friends.

"You don't look very frightened." he says.

"You don't look very frightening." I reply.

After informing me that my friendship with Sherlock is rare, and special, Mycroft leaves melodramatically and I'm left stunned and annoyed. The Holmes family keep interfering with my life, and I have no idea how or why. I just want to get on with it. Am I even friends with Sherlock? Mycroft seems to think so. I don't know what to think anymore.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry it's so short. Lot's of homework.**


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